


(They want to own you but) they don’t know what game they’re playing.

by blcwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Music, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last person sullen indie rocker Derek Hale expected to be accosted by at the Silver Lake Farmer's Market was Stiles Stilinski, not in the least because he was signed to Silver Lode Records, may they all burn to the ground.  And he's the last person Derek wants to talk to, at least until Stiles asks him that one crucial question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The opposite of love's indifference

**Author's Note:**

> Always-human LA-based indie-rocker AU. Stiles is 16, Derek is 19, and Kate Argent is, always has been, and always will be, evil.
> 
> Rated mature for off-screen underage dub & non-con and thoughts about same, language, some potentially creepy/sexy observations by Derek.

The nice thing about Silver Lake was-- everyone who lived here was some kind of famous, but also wanted to pretend like they weren’t. It allowed for anonymity, something too lacking the rest of the time. At least, here, Derek could go for a run, finish it off with a stop at the farmer’s market for a _jugos fresco_ as he walked home for a cooldown without anyone stopping him to fangirl (or fanboy, his base was pretty equal-opportunity and Derek knew where his bread was buttered, even if sex was the last thing on his mind most of the time). 

Still. Fans-- he got enough of that out on tour. When he was home, he just wanted to chill. Write. Review demos with Peter. Work on whatever songs the kids at Wolf Pack wanted to bring him, and try not to be too fucking smug that at almost twenty, he was established enough that he’d gotten good, younger artists signed to his tiny label. There was time to record. Go for runs. And then, he'd go back out on the road when he started to feel too itchy, like people were watching, their gazes burning holes in his skin. It was a life, even if it wasn’t precisely what he’d envisioned when he and Laura had cut their first song. 

So it was with more than a little displeasure that he found himself interrupted during his conversation with the _abuelita_ at the _jugos_ stand, this kid clearing his throat and his “Excuse me,” oh so very polite. Derek got his snarl on. 

No one ever accused him of being anything other than an asshole to paparazzi and fans, not since he went solo; the only reason he’d managed to stay popular (well, aside from Peter’s management skills) was because he had talent and looks. Derek knew he didn’t have charm. He gave precisely no fucks.

“I don’t do autographs, kid,” he said, turning back to the _abuelita_ because an icy mango shake was all he wanted from life. The sweat dripped between his shoulders, the late afternoon heat getting muggy with the traffic-time smog.

“Fine,” said the kid from behind him. “But answer one question from me and then I’ll leave you alone.” He grabbed Derek’s tank, gross from his run, and yanked Derek around, stronger than he looked for someone so scrawny. There was something about the kid, bitter, ferocious, familiar—it only occurred to Derek that maybe he ought to be scared when the kid, freckled and sweaty and pale, said, his voice low and full of trembling fury, “How old were _you_ when Kate Argent shoved her hands down your pants?”

It was some kind of stereotype moment, the setting sun going dark, all the sounds fading out, his vision narrowing in as he realized who was standing before him, who he was, why he had to be asking. It never occurred to him that it was a setup—not the way the kid’s eyes practically popped out of his head, not the way he twitched, looking around because—yeah, it would be weird for people to see them together. No reason. Plenty reasons why not. Except for this one. 

Who knows how long it took for Derek to process that question, who it was asking—he still woke up sweaty some nights, it was ridiculous, really, because there were worse things that have happened to far better people than Derek—but still. The kid had asked him a question.

“Did you drive here or walk?”

The kid nodded once, like that was the right answer to his—fuck—his question, then turned to the _abuelita_ , paid for Derek’s drink, handed it to him, and headed off toward the municipal lot. 

Derek followed. And shot off a message. Wondered what the fuck he had done to deserve all of this shit, followed quickly by—Jesus, Kate was at it again, and this time with Stiles fucking Stilinski, America’s current dorktastic sweetheart. But—the kid had figured it out, if he’d tracked Derek down and. Well.

Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but Derek didn’t give a shit right now, because the brains behind the biggest teen band since—Derek and Laura had first hit the scene, not even four full years ago but Christ, time dragged and went by in a second—Stiles was seeking him out and Derek’s blood was boiling, because he might be short on charm but he could see talent a mile away and he watched anything The Modern Kids put out, especially Stiles’ commentaries on YouTube. The kid was a musical genius, even beyond his stupid sarcasm and crazy drum and dance skills. No one that skinny should be able to move his hips like Stiles did, but then again, Derek and Laura's act had never required them to dance.

Once they’d slid inside the—surprisingly—shitty blue Jeep Stilinski drove, Derek took a second look at the kid, and thoughts of revenge against Kate (not just escape, his focus last time) slid to the side because. Yep. The kid couldn’t be any older than Derek had been, and sure, it had been three whole goddamned years, but that didn’t mean sixteen wasn’t too young. Any age, really, to deal with someone like Kate. 

“You want me to drive?” he finally asked, after the kid just gripped the steering wheel and stared out the window as if, having tracked Derek down and spit out his question, he now had no idea what the fuck he should do. 

“That. That’d be good,” he said. Then bit his lip and stared out the window some more. 

Derek’s pocket buzzed—a quick check showed Peter’s response. 

_Bring him to the house. Deaton's on his way._

Right, then. Derek got out, opened the driver’s side door, and gave the kid a nudge on the shoulder. 

“C’mon, Stiles. My uncle’s got the family lawyer coming over. Things are going to be fine.”

The boy blinked at him—long lashes, honey-gold eyes, all that shit the gossip blogs said about creamy skin and moles and him looking like an angel in a Rococo painting. He blinked again, then let go of the wheel long enough to run trembling hands over spiky-mussed hair, his expression wavering between _I can do this_ and _Holy fuck, what do I do?_

Derek didn’t know why the kid hadn’t gone to his dad—well, no, he remembered full well why. Laura’s accusation that Derek was just throwing a tantrum because he didn’t want to do another Osmond-style album with her at Silver Lode Records—they talked, now, sometimes had lunch or went shopping, he gave her feedback on the songs she played him because he was a professional, damnit, and he knew what it looked like if you couldn’t even get along with one of your only two relatives. He wanted to. Really. Still, that disbelief when he’d been telling the truth? He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite forgive Laura for that, no matter how stupid he’d been to think Kate wanted him, wasn’t just preying because—she could, because she was a hunter like that. 

He didn’t blame Chris for turning a blind eye; probably the same way Stiles was feeling shitty about Allison being in his damned band. Family was. Fucking hard.

“It’s going to be a fucking shitshow,” Stiles finally said. It wasn’t really audible, but Derek was standing right there, and he had a trained ear.

Derek nodded. “Yeah, for a while, but—that’s what Deaton and Peter are for, and you’ve got more talent than the rest of your band put together. They don’t fucking believe you? They don’t want to help you? Fuck them. We got her right where it hurts, in the copyrights and the royalties, we’ll do it this time, too. Promise. Erica and Isaac and Boyd will be happy to have someone closer their age at the label, and…” Derek shrugged, because it was true and right now, it wouldn’t hurt to admit. “I’m shit at the social networking thing. Peter’ll be happy there’s someone around who can teach them what not to tweet.”

Something in Stiles’ shoulders eased and that feeling—that perpetual feeling Derek had carried for almost a full year, on and off for another, before it had settled down now into only so often (maybe, you know, not even as much as once a week), like whenever he ran into Kate at an event or saw Laura or heard some story about some pervert doing something they shouldn’t, that sick feeling that made his skin crawl and made him see red all at once—that eased in Derek as well. 

Stiles bit his lip. Nodded. Knocked his knee on the steering wheel as he surrendered the driver’s seat of the car, fumbled the keys with sweaty, cold hands into Derek’s palm. Derek wondered that his own hands weren’t shaking, because he remembered like it was yesterday going to Peter’s office, closing the door, asking to talk—having no fucking idea what to say because what if Peter reacted like Laura?

 _Are you on your way yet?_

Stiles banged his other knee on the dash, getting into his own passenger seat as Derek answered. With one hand, he pressed send— _On our way_ \-- with the other, almost unconscious, he brushed the place where a bruise was already forming right at the edge of too-big basketball shorts, then pulled his hand back, because—Stiles wouldn’t want people touching him much, not if Derek remembered, though the kid didn’t recoil, just shot Derek a look and then rolled his eyes at the bruise, like it was nothing he didn’t expect. 

The Jeep roared to life, the stick a bit cranky as he pulled out of the space. The AC was sluggish, and Stiles wrung his hands before he nodded, some decision made as he let out a gusty exhale. Despite the clammy sweat from his run—despite the smog that came in when he rolled down the window, because the AC was just not going to cut it-- Derek found himself nodding along to whatever unsaid thing Stiles had decided, felt the burning anxious prickle under his own skin ease some more, though most of the time he forgot it was there.

The fire of the sunset filled up the rearview behind him and the dark sprawl of West Sunset and the winking red and white blare of taillights and oncoming traffic slurred before them. Derek should probably panic, that someone had figured out his secret—but instead, he felt relieved. Like he was on the verge of something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t whatever he’d been doing before, just holding on. 

This felt like something else, something solid to build on.

The light ahead switched over to green. He shifted, the car inching forward in traffic. Stiles tapped his fingers on the dash in time with the song—one of Boyd’s, a howl of rage about silence, loneliness, ashes. 

After a few silent minutes, as Derek was turning up the hill to his house, Stiles murmured—“Thanks.”

“It’s going to be fine.” For the first time in—a while, Derek thought maybe it might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have listened to “Rococo” and “Ready to Start” by Arcade Fire a few too many times while writing this. I don’t know—that whole album gives me AU!Indie band feelings, and then this happened.


	2. Thoughts like these that keep me on my feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate was a fool to accost a kid like Stiles in a room full of computers. There was an audio clip from Stiles’ last encounter with Kate. Suffice it to say, Judge Finstock was ripshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really didn't mean to start a new series, much less one with a soundtrack. 
> 
> Oh well. 
> 
> Please note the added pairings and warnings.

It was an in-chambers meeting in Judge Finstock’s office, since Stiles was a minor. After Stiles was done talking, everyone sat stone-faced as the Judge watched the clip on Stiles’ phone—because of course Stiles had known it would happen again and was ready for it. 

Kate was a fool to accost a kid like Stiles in a room full of computers. There was an audio clip from Stiles’ last encounter with Kate, too—all her disgusting threats to Stiles and his dad, the rest of Stiles’ band. Suffice it to say, Judge Finstock was ripshit.

Peter’s hand briefly patting his shoulder was the only thing that made Derek notice he’d shut his eyes at some point—not that that attempt at familial reassurance was going to drown his own memories of Kate’s voice, that filthy miasma he always felt whenever he heard her voice.

Judge Finstock was asking Stiles follow-up questions, Deaton sitting next to him looking enigmatic but pleased and Stiles’ dad looking mostly—shell-shocked behind what was not a very good attempt at being stoic. 

“And, not to be rude, but what’s your involvement?” Finstock was looking at Derek and Peter, his eyebrows doing the same crazy waggling thing that they’d done thirty years ago when he’d been just a kid and the comic relief on a bad TV show called _Thursday Night Fights_. A family show about a lacrosse team in a small town? Preposterous, really. It would have done better with something campy to offset the family schmaltz—something scary, like vampires, or werewolves. The show had lasted one season, but now was a cult hit online, it was so bad; at least Finstock had made it away from a sidekick best-friend nicknamed “Cupcake” and into the law.

Maybe Derek might not turn out a washout after all, at least if he could stop his mind from wandering from the last thing he ever wanted to think about. At least his parents weren’t here to have to see this. At least Laura—well. Peter, at least, had had his own seedy walks on the wild side growing into the business. Who’d have known he’d have been Derek’s best ally?

Deaton rustled in his briefcase as Peter cleared his throat, getting ready to give the judge some kind of answer while Derek thought. Technically, he didn’t have to be here, since Derek was a legal adult and none of his parents’ money had been tied up in trusts, but—Peter had insisted in coming along, serious-faced for once instead of snarky. Derek had let him. He felt kind of seasick, tangled inside. It was all happening so quickly. 

“This, um, isn’t the first time she’s done something like this,” Derek finally offered, and tried to ignore the way his ears burned and just—keep eye contact with the judge, the way Deaton had said, not smile or act nervous like he sometimes derped out on stage. Deaton was sliding something onto the desk, then, and Finstock broke the assessing—and then suddenly pissed look (that same look he’d had when Stiles talked) he was leveling at Derek to review the papers. In his side vision, Stiles’ dad was shifting in his seat, asking Stiles something Derek couldn’t hear, since they were sitting on the other side of the desk. 

“It’s the settlement agreement,” Peter murmured, leaning in but not trying to give Derek another pat on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. His uncle wasn’t usually the demonstrative kind, and that was okay—just knowing he’d believed Derek, that was usually enough, but. Peter probably had his own reasons to come here, as well—he’d been set back when they’d had to restart the label and he’d lost his top producer position with the Argents, there was no way he wouldn’t enjoy seeing Kate taken down for his own sake. 

Plus, Peter never did buy the accident report about the bus equipment failures that killed Derek's parents and Chris’ wife. He’d never liked Kate, not that Derek could ever recall.

The judge flipped through the papers, cleared his throat as he read the summary of the money and royalty agreements on the last page, then flipped through them again. 

“Right. I can read between the lines. Christ.” He looked at Derek, then over at Deaton. “The phone’s evidence, I’ll impound it and seal it for now—do you want this to be part of the record?” He tapped the agreement. 

Stiles wouldn’t even look at Derek—but everyone else in the room was looking at him. Deaton had said Stiles’ recordings should be enough, the wiretap law could probably be got around because of the situation—but he’d said, too, that the settlement agreement, Derek’s testimony, they would help. Make the case totally solid.

 _You’ll never be any good without me, baby boy,_ that’s what she’d said. 

She was wrong. 

She still was.

He’d been too afraid then to make a big scene, even if he’d just as soon see her dead as arrested—but he’d survived the media shitstorm when he’d started Wolf Pack—including her rumors, that he was some spurned wannabe boytoy. His parents might even have been proud, even if it wasn’t on the same scale they’d had, even if he was never going to be some cult inspirational charmer, not like Stiles could, if he tried.

He nodded—said yes, aloud, and then—answered fewer questions than he thought Finstock would have. He watched as Finstock took Stiles’ phone and the agreement, then made some notes on the pad on his desk before handing them all to the court officer standing off to the side. “Greenberg, impound the shit out of these, any of this leaks to the press I’ll make you sorry you ever lived. And tell the D.A. to get his ass down here, I want the cops at Silver Lode in the next fucking hour.”

The nondescript guy nodded, bagged the evidence up, left the room. Finstock sighed, rolled his head on his shoulders, said—“Now, this is going to be rough, boys, but you did the right thing and I’m not going to pull out my bag of inspirational speeches, but—just keep your chins up, don’t leak any of this shit onto the internet, please, and remember, no matter how many hits they throw at you, you already took the hardest hit, coming here.” 

He nodded, harrumphed at something, and flapped out of the room in his robes like a disheveled crow—not exactly the picture of dignified justice, but Deaton said Finstock was the best Superior Court judge for family law issues, and Stiles’ googling on Derek’s laptop last night made it clear—all the major entertainment cases in town that went the right way were cases in front of Finstock. He had a reputation as an odd duck, but no one seemed to have a complaint about him as a judge, except the usual bitching from the losing attorneys. 

Deaton smiled briefly and shuffled the few papers left on the desk into his briefcase. “Gentlemen, I’ll be in touch. Thank you. I’m going to the clerk’s office now to assist His Honor, I’ll be in touch.” He shook hands quickly with everyone, then excused himself from the room, leaving Peter, Derek, Stiles and his Dad alone together in a room that seemed—way too small, all of a sudden. 

The fake plastic ficus in the corner was dusty, Derek saw, and the drapes were faded down at the hems. Peter had scuffed the shit out of the rug underneath where he’d sat, and Stiles shirtcuffs were rumpled under his jacket. Of them all, Stiles’ father looked the worst off, like he couldn’t believe this wasn’t some nightmare. He hadn’t said very much, not since he’d gotten to Derek’s house late last night, not since Peter had called him and then Derek had gotten on the phone to-- confirm. 

It was clear Stiles was trying to think of something to say when Peter stood up, clapped his hands, and said, “Well, the only way this could be more awkward was if Judge Cupcake had remembered he’d arraigned me for a drunk and disorderly ten years ago and then asked me out on a date. But, he didn’t, so I say we go eat our feelings at the In N’ Out drive through.” 

Derek snorted—“Was that the…”

Peter nodded. “Cyndi Lauper and George Michael at the Grammys. Yep.” He looked proud of himself. Derek didn’t know all the details of the story—it was one of those urban legends by now, but he could believe any of the six variations he’d heard. Peter’s pop career at the top of the charts may have been short, but no one could say he hadn’t lived every second of it before making his way into production.

Something in the banter woke up Mr. Stilinski, because he blinked and looked at Peter, then back at his son, heaving himself out of his seat even as Stiles practically bounced, all coiled energy needing some kind of outlet. “A chocolate milkshake would be awesome right now. And fries. It’s not curly fries, Dad loves curly fries, but still, yum, fried stuff, right Dad?”

Mr. Stilinski nodded. Clapped his arm over Stiles’ shoulder and hauled him in close, his fingers digging into Stiles’ jacket. “Fried stuff would be good.” Stiles stiffened a bit, but didn’t pull back from the embrace—Derek wanted to say something, but what? _Don’t touch your kid, that perverted bitch yanking his wang kind of has him in an every touch is a bad touch kind of place?_

He couldn’t say that, not when he couldn’t say it to his own family, even, hadn’t ever shrugged off Peter’s few attempts at hugging and shit. Instead, he just followed them out into the hall, trying not to be annoyed by the way Peter was watching him watch the Stilinskis. He knew Peter cared, in his own sarcastic way, but sometimes it felt a little too close to the scrutiny somebody paid to when their meal ticket was going to crack. 

When they got out to the lot, they piled into Derek’s SUV, Stiles in front and Peter and Mr. Stilinski in back. He felt something in his shoulders ease once Stiles was buckled in and they’d made it in and out of the courthouse without the press catching wind. He’d been sure this morning’s upload would have caught fire by now, despite Stiles’ belief it had been more subtle than that.

“Milkshakes, hunh?”

Peter smiled at him in the rearview mirror—a real one, and Mr. Stilinski, he was smiling too, because Stiles was singing some ridiculous song about chocolate milkshakes he’d just made up on the spot and yeah, it was fucking deflection, but they’d had serious enough for the day. 

“You gonna put a samba beat to that?” he asked as they pulled out of the lot, catching the side of Stiles’ impending grin at the tease before he set his eyes back on the road. The street lights and palms whipped by in syncopation with Stiles’ song as he turned the lyrics into a request for Siri to direct them to the nearest “Double Double, Animal Style!!!” When he was done getting the GPS on track, the kid shot him a fake dirty look. “Frak you, dude, samba. My milkshake song brings all the dubstep to the yard!” 

Peter was snorting in the back, and Mr. Stilinski looked like songs about milkshakes and Stiles crooning to an iPhone to get it to give them directions were par for the course. Maybe they were. 

In the mirror, Peter’s eyes met Derek’s again. “You did the right thing,” he mouthed, that same smile from before still in place. Didn’t say it aloud, not while Stiles yodeled something obscene about burgers and animal style that had Mr. S. sputtering and Derek choked out a laugh despite it all, despite everything. 

\--

“Want to explain this to me?” 

Laura’s hand slammed her phone down onto Kate’s desk and she jerked—she’d been so absorbed in the financials, she hadn’t heard the dumb bitch come in, much less noticed it was almost the end of the day. Of course, Laura was a money-making dumb bitch, not to mention good in the sack, so Kate smoothed on a smile and asked—

“Explain what?”

Laura’s face was splotchy with anger, tendons standing out in her neck as she thumbed something on her screen. The two guys on the screen were doing a cover, the Lumineers’ Slow it Down—

“Listen to the _song_ , Kate, and then explain to me, _again_ , why my baby brother left the fucking label and why no one’s seen Stiles for almost two days.”

Kate watched, cold prickles and fury freezing her in place as those two little shits traded lines of the song, except when the song called for “Angie,” Derek crooned “Kaykay,” and everyone here at the label knew… 

Fuck.

It was a good cover, too, but when they got to the line about _the boys are out for blood tonight_ they repeated the lyric—then did it again, before Stiles played a bridge on a mandoline and who fucking knew he could play the mandoline?

“Are you going to give me an answer?” Laura was sitting on top of the desk—her hand a little close to Kate’s letter opener for Kate’s liking, now, and she was—

“Those kids, Jesus,” Kate started to say, but then there was a knock on her door, and Chris standing in her doorway. There was a police officer standing behind him—more than one, and Chris said—“Laura, I need you to leave now.”

Laura straightened, nodding. “Sure. Just one last thing.” She looked Kate in the eye, put her phone back in her pocket, and then reared back and somehow both punched and clawed Kate all in the same swipe. There was blood on her hand when she pulled it away as the cop began to read Kate her rights.

Hunh. Who knew the bitch had it in her? She’d have to give more thought to the Hales, and that little shit, Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from the obvious Lumineers callout, [Of Monsters and Men’s “Sloom”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUpfr3FAU9Y) was on near-constant replay during this chapter.


	3. That doesn't mean that I wasn't brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia, Danny & Jackson seek Stiles out; Erica, Isaac & Boyd are recording the cover hit of the summer; Peter Hale is always planning something, even if he's only stating the obvious, mostly.

“That bitch and her boytoys are here,” the Bardot-wannabe called into the house, her voice stronger and carrying further than Lydia would have given her credit for. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t all auto-tune. “Should I let them in?”

As they stood cooling their heels while the blonde slammed the door in their face and waited for whatever answer, Danny said, quiet, “Interesting how she makes the band name sound disempowering all over again.” Lydia shifted, wishing that she’d worn flats. GPS hadn’t shown that the house was this far up the cliffs, or that there was going to be this much sand.

Jackson was quiet for a moment before he said, thoughtfully (great, just fucking great, Jackson was thoughtful, like they weren’t already fucked) “I think I like her.”

Before Lydia could come up with something stinging, the blonde swung the door open, then sashayed off like Daisy Dukes, a cut-off Paramore t-shirt and sand-coated legs were some kind of fabulous fashion statement. “Peter’ll decide if you’re here to fuck with us or not,” the girl said, leading the way up shallow birch stairs. 

“We’re here to see Stiles.” Lydia didn’t give a fuck about Peter Hale. 

The girl swung, and put one purple-lacquered hand on Lydia’s shoulder as she looked down at her—loomed—from the step above, using all of her bigger height, bigger frame, bosomy blonde Amazonian bullshit to loom. Lydia didn’t flinch, because she never did, no matter what. “I don’t care what you want,” the girl said, flexing her nails just a bit before plucking the strap of Lydia’s sundress. “Cute.” It sounded like an insult. She smiled, in a way that was more than a little bit feral, then turned and swayed the rest of the way up the stairs. 

“I hate her,” Lydia announced, but Danny just said—“Their last single sold more than ours.”

“Because Stiles worked on it,” Lydia hissed. Which was not why they were here, even if that might be a result. 

“Yeah, I definitely like her,” Jackson said, then met her glare in the stairwell. He ignored her huff, even quirked a small smile. “C’mon, Lyds. The band name is supposed to be ironic. Don’t be like that.”

At the top of the stairs, there was a huge, open-plan room—sofas, entertainment systems, a bar off to the side, but the view of the beach and the patio outside the window, the whole room, it was all cluttered with surfboards, flippers, snorkels, swimsuits—proof that the beachside mansion was regularly peopled with teenagers, as if the superhero t-shirts strewn all over the room weren’t proof enough, that and musical instruments everywhere. The man waiting for them was one Lydia recognized, and he at least wasn’t waiting with his back to them or some other bullshit producer power play—god, she’d seen them all. Was seventeen too young to be this jaded? He was just… waiting, with his arms crossed, and the blonde was already gone. 

“Have a seat.” He didn’t say anything more, just waited for them to pick. He leaned against the plate glass, the ocean curling a half-mile behind him. There was something serpentine in how he didn’t blink as Jackson chose the end of the little loveseat while Lydia sat in its middle, and Danny moved a guitar and placed it in an empty stand against the wall before taking the white Eames chair nearby. When they were all seated, he seemed about to say something when Jackson spoke up. 

“My dad’s the D.A.”

Peter Hale half-smiled. “I’m aware.”

Danny pulled out his phone. “I haven’t given this to Jackson’s Dad yet.” 

He tossed it, and Peter’s eyes widened before he—leapt would be the right word—to catch the phone and hit play on the recording stored there. Lydia kept the smirk to herself at the very human reaction to Danny’s seemingly casual destruction of what Peter Hale probably damned well knew was the nail in Kate Argent’s coffin—not to mention their record contracts.

He didn’t look at Danny like he was sorry, or like he deserved pity—but he didn’t look at Danny like he was money or dinner. Lydia supposed that made him a lesser evil, at least. 

“You have to be willing to testify,” he said, holding up a finger, for one—Lydia started to speak then, and he pointed that finger at her. 

“Stiles said you would be along before anyone else, either because your singles weren’t doing well or because Kate wouldn’t be able to help herself and you’d eventually figure it out and nut up. While I’m sorry for your friend here that it’s the latter, and not the former that’s moved your little mercenary heart to my doorstep, everybody here is expected to work. And you will respect people’s rules here, even if that bitch let you have your way over there. I don’t care what your relationships were at Silver Lode—if he or anyone else tells you no here, you will listen or you will be out. End of story.”

“I know how to work,” Lydia spat. She didn’t know where he got his information, but she wasn’t quite the Kate Argent protégé everyone seemed to think that she was. Stiles knew that. She hoped.

Peter Hale raised an eyebrow. “If you didn’t, Erica wouldn’t have let you in the door. And you’re not a dumb girl.” Lydia curled her nails into her hands, planted her feet further into the floor. “Production’s your only way to stay in this business if you don’t break in to the movies, and let’s face it, darling—there are already a handful of feisty short redheads onscreen, you’re probably outside the quota.”

She could feel her face burn—he wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already thought or that Kate hadn’t said, even more hurtfully. Kate may have “gone on a retreat” these last couple of months, Chris Argent might be walking around not making eye contact with anyone while Gerard closed the office doors all day long and acted like nothing was wrong while Laura tried to keep things running and was distracted and prone to tempers—plus, frankly, she wasn’t always that good at the production and business side of stuff, as much as she tried. It sucked, because she was the only grownup, kind of, left, now that Stiles’ dad was gone, too.

Peter smirked—“Fortunately, Stiles says you’re smart under all that porcelain doll bullshit, and this industry doesn’t have enough women lawyers ready to cut off people’s balls when they deserve it.” He paused. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Lydia did not want to smile back, not when he’d apparently already decided her career path. Even if it sounded like a good possibility.

“I’m a math genius,” she spat.

The elder Hale tipped his head. “Yes, clearly, it’s why your tunes are such earworms, the melodic lines are perfect, but Stiles’ lyrics are better, and really, Miss Martin—do you want to scrawl equations in classrooms full of nerds, or do you want to be famous and feared?”  


He tipped his head at the room, at the beach, at the clutter of a room well-used. The “feared” might be ironic. Maybe it wasn’t. Lydia knew about image, but… she was just self-aware enough to know there was the danger of getting eaten up from the outside, as well. Peter Hale seemed to get something of what she was thinking, because his smile turned—well. He wasn’t gentle, she didn’t think, but maybe he was a little less ferocious than when they’d walked into the room. “Astrophysicists do things that are important, but the music of the spheres? You can’t dance to it, I’m afraid.”

He put Danny’s phone down on the bar, checking the worn old watch he wore on his wrist. Funny, that, someone as rich as him with a tattered leather wrist band and battered brass Timex.

“They should be almost finished downstairs.” He slid open the door at the edge of the panorama wall and stood, waiting for them. 

“I don’t like him,” Jackson muttered as she got out of the chair. 

Danny hmmed, reserving judgment. 

Lydia took one more look around the room—notebooks, Grammys, soda cans, cases of water, bags of Cheetos all over. Nothing like the regimented order Kate imposed at Silver Lode, at least when she wasn’t trying to be friends and it was painfully clear she needed something and it hurt her to ask. 

“He might be okay. If I don’t kill him for being a condescending asshole.” She’d reserve judgment on that part. No one called her short and got away with it for long.

\--

Peter Hale led them down the back stairs and across a stone path to what looked like a guesthouse but turned out to be a studio. Derek Hale was at the sound board, a curly-haired boy seated next to him tapping his fingers in time with the beat Stiles was drumming in the studio while a muscled black boy rapped something fast and furious that finally resolved itself into “Boys of Summer” while the blonde sang-screamed the “I can see you,” chorus into a mike, hair swinging and hips swaying as she tossed herself around in the booth with abandon.

It was actually pretty damned good—and no one had done a cover of it in ages. Plus, Memorial Day was right around the corner—if they got it up with the same speed and the same goofy home-shot videos Stiles was the master of— the kind he’d been churning out on his own and in duos with Derek, not to mention for the rest of the label every week for the last two fucking months, swamping YouTube and iTunes with covers and original songs that no one could stop singing—downloading, too. Well. Silver Lode Records was dead. Long live Wolf Pack Records. 

“Fuck,” Danny muttered, but he had a smile on his face. Their album was supposed to drop next weekend, but their single wasn’t as catchy as—yep, a Stilinski-cover-remix of the Eagles by a punk-rap-metal trio that looked like an anime lineup. Somewhere, Don Henley was going to get rich all over again, and Peter Hale and his nephew were going to be lining their pockets on their cut of Hell or High Water’s remix.

“It’s going on their new album, Blood Moon,” Peter said, quietly, as Derek ignored them and spoke into the mike. She missed Stiles’ reply, but he twirled his sticks and beat out some new rhythm; Erica hollered out some new line, a banshee wail of a call that made the hair on Lydia’s arm rise. 

The curly-haired boy dropped out of his seat and entered the booth, picking up a bass and strumming a line to match Stiles’ new beat. Lydia thought it was some different variant, still, on the cover, but it turned out to be something else, some thrashing, furious song where all three of the band members growled “Claws!” into the mikes in the sudden silence—a total Stiles and her thing, that use of negative space—the lyrics were all fury and sex, the rhyme scheme a complicated pentameter that had Danny nodding and heading over to the sound board to watch the readouts.

They made it through two verses, then stopped, Stiles beating out something and the black boy—what was his name? Boyd?—noodling back on his guitar—but it was—

“You want a dissonant major, drop the speed,” she said, grabbing the mike from Derek Hale. Stiles pursed his lips, not looking up as he reached behind the drumkit and strummed out a new line in A major on an acoustic he’d had stashed there—Boyd picked it the line and then Isaac, while Erica picked up a drumstick and tapped on one of the cymbals as they slowed down the speed, found the new rhythm, played it again-- and then Stiles modulated the chord, hit the snare, nodded to himself as Derek pulled the mike out of Lydia’s reach, like he’d decided she’d meddled enough for the day. His eyebrows were creased angrily at her, and. No. She wasn’t ready to think about why Stiles hadn’t talked to her about any of this, but instead had chosen some fledgling indie-Byron who looked like Abercrombie & Fitch, all grown up. 

When she looked over, Danny had written down the new lines on a notebook laid down on the board. Jackson was sipping a diet soda. She glared until he reached into—oh, good, a mini fridge-- and grabbed her one as well. 

Derek Hale glanced at her once more, his expression betraying nothing more than what one tabloid had called “Resting Face: Murder” before hitting record—“From the top, then.”

She closed her eyes and just listened. On the second run through, she watched Stiles drum as intently as ever, at ease in his board shorts and bare feet with a band Lydia only knew from her faux tabloid feud. Peter Hale was gone and the door was open, the faint sound of surf in the background, but Hell and High Water was running through the song again at full speed with the modulation on the third verse. 

The soda bubbled sweet in her throat as she sipped, and no one was yelling in the offices in the background. It was perfect, even if it wasn’t her style at all.

She could feel herself smiling for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is Tegan & Sara's "I'm Not Your Hero," because Lydia only wants to be herself, whoever that is.


End file.
